


it tolls for thee

by helplesslynerdy



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gaslighting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helplesslynerdy/pseuds/helplesslynerdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor thinks that he is seeing people from his past. Have his suppressed ghosts finally come back to haunt him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue- lonelily

**_prologue_ **

 

_click_

FLASH

_click_

FLASH

_click_

FLASH

_cli-_

“All right there, mate?” 

_Outside of reliving Captain Adelaide Brooke shutting the door and then her-_

He rakes a hand down his face. “Alwa-“ he clears his throat. “Mmhmm.” It’s more into the tumbler in his hand, the amber liquid swirling with his movement. He’d picked this bar because it was relatively empty, but apparently he was still able to attract some attention. The personage in front of him, he couldn’t even bloody tell, the voice did sound deep, deep, _deep like the drinking they were interrupting him from doing_ \- everything was a bit of a blur- the _whatever_ in front of him, well- 

They were already gone.

Just as well. 

The rim of the glass in front of him is slick, his finger gliding lazily around the rim. Still some left in there. 

Thankfully in the tweaking of Time Lord DNA the old bastard had had the good sense to still let libations get his people as drunk as any other humanoid. He snorts. _Humanoid._ He’d been around them for much too long, even taking on their terrene-centric terminology. 

He’d lived too long.

Especially when all he can see is icy blue eyes- before the door clicked shut and everything went white-blue- _he hadn’t even meant for her to take her own life; was he getting too clever now?_

The Doctor slams his fist down, the glass and condiment bottles rattling before settling again. It takes the sound of his own hissing breaths to bring him back to himself. 

He takes another swig of the drink.

It’s obviously not been enough.

He’s still thinking.

The ice in the glass that he just set back slowly clinks against the side before drifting towards the middle again. 

Hours, minutes, eons, he couldn’t be arsed at the moment to tell you how long he stared into his empty glass at that ice cube. Eventually, he blearily lifted his eyes to see another tumbler sitting not even inches away.

Ah, yes. Ordered another drink.

He drags the glass forward, downing half of it before he could even taste it. He smacks his lips. It left a nice aftertaste, at least. She always did like it, her honey and whiskey. 

Like her eyes had been.

_Not enough._

He gulps down the rest of the drink before staggering to his feet. Jack had left some hypervodka on the TARDIS. A wad of some kind of Earth currency on the table, and he is halfway out the door.

Thankfully, the TARDIS had the decency to be just around the corner. A shuffle in the snow past the milk crate that was asking for it, being in the middle of the alley like that for no good reason , and his hand connects with the only thing he has in the universe.

The only thing that’s always stayed.

He coughs, part to clear his throat, part choking back a sob- weak- and he fumbles for the TARDIS’ key in his pocket. 

Hypervodka, and lots of it.

_schick._

He blinks, shaking his head slightly before turning towards the offending noise. Probably just some newspaper in the wind. The overturned rubbish bin- _had he done that too?_ \- didn’t have any cats or rodents. 

_crunch._

The sound of snow underfoot helps improve his reflexes as he looks to the end of the alleyway that someone was leaving.

Someone in an unseasonably short-sleeved blue tee with wavy blonde-

His feet were moving faster, faster, _crunch crunch crunch crunch_ before he could even connect one neurological-pathway to another.

By the end of the alleyway, he’s out of breath, hands clasped on his knees. He looks up, turning to the left and the right to catch a glimpse again, make sure he hasn’t properly lost it.

Just as he’s about to turn back, tail between his legs, he sees that bit of yellow again. 

She’s too far away, his bloody eyes are too watery with the whiskey and cold, and he can’t tell if it’s-

“Rose?”


	2. older chests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor moves on to the next thing, trying to forget.

Cicadas call out loudly; each one piggybacking on the noise of another until it seems like it will never quite stop. 

The hair on the back of the Doctor’s neck is _almost_ damp, speaking to the intensity of the humidity in the summer night air. He loosens his tie and continues trekking up the hill.

He’s in the southern part of the United States- Appalachia if he had to guess. It was remote, trees were everywhere, and he knew that it was unlikely that he would run into anyone here. Nothing here to remind him; nothing here to bring back old ghosts. 

Especially after what happened in that alleyway.

He’d stumbled about to no avail. It had to have just been a trick of his mind. There was no way in all the universes that she could have been there. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought. Besides, he couldn’t smell her. That warm _Rose-y_ smell that would be there whenever she pulled her hair up, or whenever he would lean behind her on the controls helping her learn how to fly the TARDIS. Or whenever they would be trapped in a cupboard, barely breathing lest they get caught, _and he couldn’t help himself, he would try and lean in just a little closer_ -

He shakes his head. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been real. 

And so he did what he did best.

He ran.

And here he was. He’d had a bit of a run-in with a company that had been actually run by a Patroxi, storing chemicals that years of the area’s mining had built up. There had been a toxic leak into the local water system, and the Doctor had sent the Patroxi packing, as it were. Filtered the water as well as possible and hoped for the best. Thankfully he was in an area remote enough that he hadn’t had to explain anything to the locals. Much like most beings in the universe, people didn’t really want to be bothered with the unknown. Fixing things behind the scenes was much easier than having to deal with the damage control of humans finding out the seemingly abandoned plant had actually been harboring an alien all of these years. 

If only they knew how much actually went on around them.

But that is his purpose, isn’t it? He picks a dandelion on the ground beside him, twirling the bud between his fingers. At least, it was before he decided to go off the deep end. 

The petals slipping through his fingers alert him to the fact that he’s crushing the flower. He drops it and wipes his hand on his trousers. No reason to be taking out his issues on the wildlife.

“Hey.”

The Doctor turns to see a little boy with unruly blonde hair toddling towards him.

Scanning the horizon of the hill, the Doctor can see a woman quickly cresting and coming towards them.

“Jake!”

The toddler doesn’t turn, still making a beeline for the Doctor. He braces himself for impact, as the boy’s grubby hands hit his knee. The Doctor carefully keeps his hands on the ground, not wanting to alert the woman whom he presumes is the mother. 

“Hello, there,” he says, the boy’s fingers grasping at the fabric of his trousers, enjoying the slightly coarse material. 

“Hi.” 

The woman is soon there, scooping the squirming boy up. “Sorry, the little munchkin likes to run.”

“Ah, good on the lad.” He brushes some of what looks like porridge off his knee. “No harm done.”

“You British?” she asks, as her wary eyes travel over him briefly. 

He coughs out a laugh. “I used to be.”

“Mm.” She hums, distrust still keeping her back. “Your car break down? Need a phone? Not much for cell service in these parts.” 

“No, just hiking.” He looks out, waving an arm at the horizon. “Enjoying the scenery.”

“In that suit?” A small smirk crosses her face, clearly showing what she thought of his common sense, or lack thereof, before she looks out at the horizon herself. “Just trees out here.” 

“Mama, din-din?” Jake lifts his hand to his mother’s face, which she catches before he gets whatever was crusted on his hand on her face. 

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go get some dinner.” She turns as if to leave, then turns back. “We’re roasting some weenies. Always make enough to feed an army. You look like you need more meat on your bones.”

He shouldn’t go with her. Need to keep moving. Rural families tended to spend a lot of time together, which means that it probably is more like a family gathering. Children and uncles and _mothers_ … too much like that Christmas dinner all those years ago.

But this woman is real. And he really doesn’t want to be alone right now. 

Before he is even aware of it, the Doctor finds himself agreeing. 

Turns out, most of the woman’s family was gathered around a picnic table near their home. His plate was loaded down with hot dogs covered in some kind of meat sauce and coleslaw, broccoli smothered in cheese and cracker crumbs, pickled beets, and some kind of orange dessert with marshmallows. Soda in cans- _why do they insist on calling it “pop”?_ \- and few beers float around, and he begins to understand the interest humans have in trousers with elastic waists after eating. 

As dinner wanes and the coffee is served, he realizes he is actually enjoying his time with these people. His accent was the main interest, and they continually pepper him with questions. Mainly to hear him speak in his accent, he’s sure, but he can’t say that he minds. 

And for the longest time, he finds himself forgetting. 

He’s about to finally take his leave when he sees a flash of red in the tree line. “John?” He turns back to Marla, the woman who found him. 

“Did you see that?” He scans the horizon, eyes searching in every which way. 

“What?”

“In the trees, there was a bit of red.”

“See the Mothman, eh?” She shifts the sleeping Jake onto her other shoulder. “Probably just a trick of the light.”

He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “Probably so.”

“Nice meeting you, John.”

“And you.”

She’s already inside when he sees it again, but it’s then that he realizes that it’s not a mythical creature, or even a trick of the light.

It was the tartan of a kilt. Just as soon there as gone. 

Dylan, Marla’s partner, claps the Doctor on the shoulder. “Swing by anytime you’re back in the area, John.” 

“Y-yeah. Thanks.” He stammers before practically falling off the porch. “Got to be going now.”

“Be safe.”

The Doctor is already halfway back down the hill. He thought that he’d had some rest, cleared his head, _did some good_ , and that he wasn’t losing it.

Apparently it isn’t enough.

The gathering dark falls over the woods, and the Doctor is ever thankful that he keeps a torch in his pocket. 

A twig snap, and he’s whirling around, the light dancing across the blue-brown of the trunks around him in the darkness. 

Nothing. 

Maybe it’s just a case of Troxler Effect. He hasn’t been resting as he should, and he’d just had two instances of it. That’s all. Sleep deprivation is not good under any circumstances, even for Time Lor-

The light from his torch lands on a man in front of him who throws up his hand to his face to block the light’s glare. He’s got sandy brown hair, black shirt, and…a red kilt. The Doctor involuntarily steps back, not believing his eyes. The apparition’s hands slowly fall, looking intently at the Doctor without speaking. 

It couldn’t be.

“Jamie?” he whispers. The light in his torch goes out suddenly, plunging everything into blackness. The Doctor whaps on the bottom of the torch, and the light stutters back, bathing the woods in its golden glow.

The now _empty_ woods.

He darts the light about, looking in every which way to see if he can find a trace of his long-lost companion. 

But there’s nothing.

Even the woods have seemed to go silent.

And the Doctor falls to his knees.


	3. lonely soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor lands in the middle of an unexpected place.

“Now what’s the bloody point of even having controls, eh?”

The Doctor looks up and flicks a finger against the glass of the TARDIS’ console. If he happened to overestimate his own strength and had to immediately stick the wounded finger in his mouth, well- 

Nothing.

Not a beep, not a flicker of light.

No matter what he does, the old girl won’t let him go anywhere he wants to go. With a small glance- _this is **not** over_ \- back at the console’s glowing central mechanisms that are steadily shining despite his muttered oaths, he concedes defeat and pulls on his overcoat, straightening the collar as he prepares to exit his ship.

As he opens the door to have a look about, he finds himself in the fields of Scotland, at a small parish cemetery. Weeds, stones turned to rubble against the wear of weather and time- it’s a small affair that has long been victim to the overgrowth of abandonment.

The leaves that have built up against the barriers of the stones crunch underfoot as he weaves his way through the churchyard. A brief salute at a guardian granite angel, its eyes steadily focused forward- and no hands covering the eyes, mind- and he’s almost to the little path that leads away into the dell below the hill. 

_Now why in the world did she drop me_ \- Tongue resting against his top teeth, he slowly turns about, scanning not only the cemetery but the surrounding lands before him. He notices a road, recently paved if he’s not mistaken, and as he starts to go to the path that leads down the hill, he trips over a stick poking out of the ground. Catching himself on a nearby headstone, he shakes his head before looking closer at the inscription under his thumb. 

“James Robert.” 

_It couldn’t be._

A quick brush against the ivy covering the rest of the gravestone shows, “James Robert McCrimmon- Born 1723, Died Defending His Clan and His King- 1746. _Misneachail_.”

The Doctor looks back at the TARDIS, grinding his teeth against the tears that are threatening to fall. _Why?_

Why would she have brought him here of all places?

The backfire of an engine pulls him from his angry musings. A small jeep, much like any seen during the Second World War.

Of course he’d be dropped in the middle of a conflict now.

The Doctor follows the sound of the vehicle to find a small field hospital that seems to have recently gotten a shipment of new patients.

Maybe this is why he’s here.

The honking of vehicles, the buzz of activity grows louder- as do the sounds of men wailing.

Sounds all too familiar.

Steeling his shoulders, the Doctor lifts the canvas flap in front of him to enter the first tented area. He can tell that some more permanent buildings are being instituted, but tragedy doesn’t tend to wait for readiness. Nurses bustle about, tending as best they can to each man. As the Doctor notices little things he can do to help without drawing attention, he does so. A glass of water here, a reinstated IV there. 

Strangely enough, he goes completely unnoticed. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or concerned- though he’s nigh-positive it’s because of the newest shipment of men.

And from what he can tell, most of these men won’t be seeing any more active duty. 

If some of them even get to see tomorrow.

The nurses, all clad in what had been crisp, white suits, seem to be from all parts of Britain, and there are even a few Americans peppered throughout. He could swear that he sees a VAD, or someone from the Order of Saint John in their habit-looking dress out of his periphery, but it must have been an elderly volunteer. 

More often than not, as he keeps to the edges of the tents, his eyes follow a nurse the others call “Dot.” She can’t be more than 1.58 metres, but she seems to rule the roost. Her white cap can barely keep up in her dark curls as she whisks up and down the aisles.

Often, she’s scolding men who are wary of shots. The Doctor marvels as she gives a self-pitying solder that’s broken both legs a tongue lashing that would have made a Dalek’s casing melt. As he continues to watch, he notices that her behavior is not arbitrary. She has soft words for those desperate, but definitely is not afraid to wail into medical staff and patient alike when the need calls for it. It’s a rare thing, he muses, for someone to know when to use either, especially under such conditions. 

And he finds himself wondering if she’d want to see the stars.

He shakes his head, drawing a hand down his face.

Not anymore. 

He follows Dot into another tent, keeping back to assess everything before him. The smell of disinfectant is stronger in here, and the Doctor's hearts sink. Most likely that critical patients are in here if they have to clean things that thoroughly. 

Dot approaches an unconscious patient, her hands brushing against his hair that is sticking up from under a bandage that wraps around his whole head, covering his eyes. Whistling softly to herself, she picks up the file at the foot of the man’s bed, one of the doctors milling about obviously having already tended to him. She closes her eyes briefly before opening it, and, after scanning her first few lines, her face falls and the melody ceases.

He can guess what it means for the young man and his eyesight.

The patient begins to stir, slowly turning his head to the left and then to the right. His hand raises weakly, fingertips trailing along the line of his bandage.

“What’sss-” he takes a deep breath. “What’s going on?”

Dot clears her throat lightly, a false smile coming to her face, even though he can’t see it. “You’re in Scotland, my lad.”

“Yeah?” he huffs, “I doubt that if everyone has as bad an accent as you.”

Her responding laugh is genuine. “No, you’re right, I’m a Yank. But you are in a field hospital in Scotland.” She puts her hand on his arm. “Do you remember anything of what happened?”

As she asks, both of his hands have raised to the bandage, and his awareness seems to have hit him like a load of bricks. “What is going on? What happened to me?”

“Now, Harry-”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” He now is frantically grappling at the bandages, and she takes both of his hands. 

“Now, you can’t-”

“What is going on?! Why am I bandaged up?”

Her voice takes on an edge- hard-earned, the Doctor is sure. “Here, I’ll explain it to you, if you’ll just calm yourself, soldier.”

“Lieutenant,” he says automatically.

“Lieutenant,” she agrees, placatingly. “I'm your nurse. You can call me Dot." She pauses before continuing, "You were near a blast. There was some shrapnel.” 

His chest starts to rise rapidly. “Why can’t I see?”

Dot hesitates, and it’s obviously enough to confirm the worst. 

The young man’s breathing shallows and speeds up, and the Doctor knows he is about to start hyperventilating. He laboriously rolls to his side, breaths not filling his lungs with air.

She leans forward, her knuckles almost white with the grip they have on his hands. “Harry, Harry, c’mon. You have to breathe with me. Listen to my voice. C’mon, Harry!”

His gasps become choked, and the Doctor draws nearer to step in and try to pull the lieutenant back to his senses. Before he could come within several bed-widths of them, however, Dot crawls into the cot behind Harry, her arm wrapped tightly about his torso. 

“Breathe with me. Listen to my voice. In, out. In, out.” With each breath, it looks as if she is trying to encourage his diaphragm to lift, her flattened palm gently pushing up below his ribcage. “In, out. In, out.” 

Harry’s breaths become a cough, but she steadily keeps her rhythm.

“In, out.”

“In, out.”

When his breath slows to quiet, reedy wheezes, she slows as well.

“In…”

“Out…”

The staccato of his breathing evens. Harry is gulping in breaths along with her for a few moments before his shoulders begin to shake. He takes in a shuddering breath and barely contains a whimpering sob. 

Harry curls in slightly, and she raises up on one arm to look at his face, her other arm still firmly around him. Finally the dam breaks, and he begins to cry, his face burrowing as close to the pillow as the bandages wrapping around his head will allow.

“Oh. Oh, honey.” Dot bites her lip, her hand slowly rubbing across his chest. “Shhh, shhh.” Tears puddle in her eyes as she rests her chin against his shoulder. “It’ll be all right, sweetheart.” She tries to rise, probably so as to check on him, but Harry’s hand shoots out, grabbing her hand and holding it to his chest tightly. She swallows thickly before resting her chin back on his shoulder. “Shhh, all right. I’m not leaving.” She closes her eyes and begins to hum something that the Doctor absently recognizes as a Christian hymn. She rocks her patient gently as her humming turns to lyrics-

_Are we weak and heavy-laden?_

He wants to help.

_Cumbered with a load of care?_

He can’t.

_Precious Saviour, still our refuge- Take it to the Lord in prayer._

So many of these things around him, limbs that could have been reattached, infections festering despite the nursing staff’s best efforts, even this man’s eyesight- he could probably fix most of their problems with a snap of his fingers and some nanogenes.

But he can’t. 

Fixed points. If ever there were a place that screamed _DO NOT CHANGE_ , this was it. Red arrows pointing, mauve lights flashing- his Time Lord spidey-sense was not tingling, it was blasting across his brain. The Doctor slowly backs away from the pair lying there on the small cot, Harry finally having fallen into a fitful sleep, his hand still clasped tightly around Dot’s. 

The Doctor stumbled outside onto the gravel, his own breath coming to him choppily. Just the smallest interventions on fixed points could alter the timelines for ill later, and oh, how he knew that better than most. Saving today’s troubles didn’t mean that a larger threat, a monstrous mistake, a small incident leading to catastrophic, world-shattering events wouldn’t come later as a result. 

Didn’t make it any fucking easier.

A soft, orange glow alerts him that he’s no longer alone out here. He turns to his left and sees that VAD a few metres away, a long trail of smoke rising to the sky above her. She looks like she’s a WWI transplant, but that’s impossible. 

And, though it’s grown quite dark, he sees that under her cap she’s...blonde.

The woman turns to him and her eyes- such dark eyes- fall on him before she stamps out the cigarette and goes back in the tent.

He can’t follow her.

Molly could _not_ be here. 

She was two bodies ago, right before-

Before _it_ happened. 

She couldn’t be here. 

He’s properly losing it.

To hell with it. 

He runs back into the tent, only to find it empty. Hands tearing at his hair, he turns in all directions, knowing she couldn’t have left so quickly.

What little sanity he had left has to be gone.

The Doctor staggers back to the TARDIS, barely registering his journey before his key is turning in the lock. 

He needs help.

He needs to talk to someone who he can trust.

Hopefully that someone will still talk to him. 

~oOo~

Of course the rain would hit the minute he was a block from the TARDIS.

Of course it would.

The Doctor tries to run underneath tattered awnings, his fringe already dripping down his face. And he wasn’t even sure that he’d find who he was looking for anymore.

He’d been finding everyone else.

Tinny music- not period-correct mind- is coming from a window at the end of the alleyway. It has to be right. Seems seedy bars adhere with almost religious fervor to the basics. 

He swings the door open to find a bar that would have made Marion from _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ cringe. Projecting the kind of menace that these three or four lifeforms scattered about the room were managing took particular talent. Brushing the wet hair from his forehead, he glances about the room, keeping from eye contact as much as possible. And a Sephnograp has enough eyes that you can’t really look at it at all without making eye contact of some sort. 

They’re not here. 

Figures.

He’s about to leave the bar when an arm lands about his shoulders, holding him back. “Long time no see, Doc,” the arm’s corresponding voice slurs into his ear.

“Hello, Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hymn lyrics are from "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" by Joseph M. Scriven.


	4. it takes a lot to know a man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor finds a drinking buddy. And unfortunately hears from an old friend.

“What’s a Time Lord like you doing in a place like this, eh?” Jack pours a drink for himself, hand deceptively steady, and takes the tumbler in front of the Doctor. The hypervodka is almost near the brim before he sets the bottle down with a clatter. “Figure it takes a while to get a Gallifreyan drunk, but I’ve got nothing but time.” 

There isn’t an accompanying wink, and barely half a smirk.

Well, if there is something that the Doctor _has_ learned in his roughly thousand years, it’s that misery not only loves company, it demands it.

“Mazel tov.”

Jack salutes him, two fingers barely lifting to touch his brow, before he downs most of his glass.

Though in Jack’s timeline it would be years since that incident on Earth, no one knows better than the Doctor that when you have nothing but time, things have a way of festering. Ideas boring worm holes into his brain- soft, like forgotten apples rotting in the grass.

And his mind will eventually collapse.

“Doc?” 

The Time Lord slowly shakes his head, meeting Jack’s eyes under his furrowed brow. 

“What’s going on? Why are you really here?”

“Can’t just want to catch up with a friend?”

Jack’s jaw sets. “Now?” 

The Doctor raises his head, finally meeting Jack’s gaze fully. “You know I would have been there if I could.”

“Cut the bullshit.” Jack swallows, eyes dry, before filling his cup again. He takes a large gulp and continues, “We both know you’ve got a reason to be here.”

The Doctor sighs. “I had nowhere else to go, Jack. No one else who would understand.”

“Heh.” Jack downs more of his drink. “No, since your race was taken out there seems to be a shortage of nigh-immortals running around.” He pretends not to notice the Doctor’s flinch. “But, even then, you can barely even stand to be around me, as much as I’ve done for you, as much as I _loved_ you, and then it’s you just waiting until _you_ fucking need something before you even think of me to merely talk-”

“Jack, I’m losing my mind.”

The bottle in Jack’s hand thuds to the table. He licks his bottom lip before looking back up to the Doctor. “We all knew that, but I’m guessing you don’t mean figuratively.” He sets the glass at his lips down before immediately picking it back up and taking a drink. “Why do you think so?”

The Doctor runs a hand through his hair. “I keep seeing things. People. Not apparitions- they’re able to manipulate objects around them.” 

“Okay. Who are they?”

“Companions. Long gone or…” He doesn’t finish, instead gulping down the rest of his vodka.

“I see.” Jack considers the interior of his glass for a long time before looking back up at the Doctor. He then reaches across and takes the other man’s hand. “You sure you’re not just worn out? No one knows more than me how ghosts have a way of following you.”

“It’s more than it’s ever been. They’re real.” He takes his hand from under Jack’s. “They make noise; their eyes are affected by light. But there’s no possible way that they could be where they are!” The Doctor slams his fist to the table. “There are no scans that ping them, no indications that they were actually there. And they’re always gone before I can catch them.” Both hands are buried in his hair, pulling as if he needs the pain to tether him to reality.

Jack lets out a breath. “Never an easy thing with you, is it?”

The Doctor huffs out a laugh, though it’s closer to a sob then he wants to acknowledge. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Doc. Nothing like that has ever happened to me.” After a beat, Jack’s brow furrows. “Hang on- maybe I have heard something?”

“Yes?” The Doctor leans forward.

“Not much, but there have been reports. Lifeforms that don’t have the correct biosignatures popping up in the Betelgeuse quadrant. It’s rumors, really…” The former Time Agent shrugs, palms up on the table. “Maybe it’s what’s happening to you?”

The Time Lord rubs the back of his neck, letting out a long breath. “Perhaps.”

Jack nods. “But you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

The Doctor looks up at him, and it’s more vulnerable than Jack wants to think of the Doctor ever being. “You reckon?”

“Yeah. You always seem to come through to the other side.” He sets his glass down and smiles fully for the first time in the evening. “Gives me hope that I might, too.”

The Doctor’s mouth pulls into a half-smile, eyes softer. “You just might.”

They both stand, and Jack leads the way out of the bar. The downpour has been reduced to a light drizzle, enough to keep both men blinking against the damp. Jack claps the Doctor on the shoulder. “Go get the monsters, Doc.” 

After a beat, the Doctor pulls Jack into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into the lapel of the other man’s overcoat. Jack bites the inside of his cheek, eyes fluttering closed. They both lean back, and Jack reaches out, cupping the Doctor’s jaw. He shakes his head once before leaning his forehead against the Doctor’s.

_loveworryhurtloveangerlovelovelove_

The Doctor pulls away, stepping out of the embrace. “Your telepathy is much stronger.”

“New hobby.” Jack chuckles, swinging both arms out wide with a flourish. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

~oOo~

The Doctor is poking at the monitor, configuring the coordinates to get to Betelgeuse and its surrounding area, when the TARDIS speakers begin to static.

“Hey now, what’s this?” He whispers up at the console. With a flip of a switch, he tries to bring up the radio feed on the monitor, but to no avail. 

The static suddenly gives way to what sounds like a talk radio show. “...caller to see if they know the answer. Caller from the Terran Corridor, who’s paddy-whacking my knick-knacks?”

A muffled voice whispering, “Oh, just you shut it, Nerys!”

The deejay doesn’t let a second go dead. “Nerys, is it?”

“No! Not in this century,” the voice that is now speaking clearly into the receiver answers. 

_Not again! Not her._

_Please._

_...not her._

The Doctor swallows against the lump in his throat. 

“It’s Donna.”

A creak of metal causes him to ease his grip off the edge of the console.

“Hello, Donna! Let’s see if you can answer the question of the hour and win the big prize! An all-inclusive trip for two to the resort and spa on Midnight! You have twenty seconds to guess. Best of luck to you! Here’s your question: which soap opera has the longest run time in the galaxy?” 

There is no way that the actual Donna would have had any experience with it. She always loved her telly, but she kept it to things from her own time- didn’t want her shows “fraught with all that space gobbledygook.” 

“Oh, oh. It’s right on the tip of my tongue! My mum hates it, but grandad watches it with me. The one with the twins.” She groans. “If only it weren’t for this bloody headache.”

“Ten seconds.”

“Just a minute! Isn’t it _Love Among the Stars_?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, I know it, I do! I just can’t think…”

“Four...three...two…”

“Please!”

And the feed cuts off. 

The Doctor is angrily sucking breath in through his teeth, loud enough that it snaps him out of his spiral and he stops. 

Wait.

_Midnight._

It’s like...someone’s _toying_ with him. Dangling memories in front of him like so many carrots. 

He starts flipping switches, practically running about the console. 

Maybe he isn’t going completely barmy.

And whoever is trying to screw with him, well-

They’d better suit up.

A storm was coming.


	5. i remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new Doctor, old hurts.

“You’ve got a little something...there.” A white-gloved hand lightly brushes against his shoulder. 

“Krakatoa.” 

The woman’s smile fades, her brow furrowing. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.” He nods quickly, “‘Scuse me.”

Behind him, he can hear her noises of indignation, mainly about Northern men’s manners. He walks far enough away to be out of eyeshot and leans against the railing, the sea air lifting the small bow at his neck. The sea is clear, dark. Nary a sound save for the quartet below deck.

“Mr. Daniels?” 

He turns to see a young man, barely past his boyhood, in a starched uniform and round hat with a chinstrap. “Barratt, sir. At your service. Anything I may do for you?”

Barely out of his swaddling clouts. 

Too young.

“No, thank you.” He attempts a pleasant face, the muscles tight with lack of use. “Barratt.” 

The boy looks out over the horizon, rubbing his hands to warm them before turning back. “Can’t believe it,” he whispers, seemingly forgetting himself. “Meself just a lad from Hampshire- on the Titanic!”

The smile is suddenly much tighter.

~oOo~

Clink of glass.

Swish of silk.

The string quartet is still playing, a quick Irish reel now. Couples spinning, laughing. Talcum powder and body odor. Sweat and the sharp tang of wine, definitely not as fine as advertised. 

He brings the delicate glass to his lips. Putting out the shite wine a little early on the trip. It warms little on the way down, doing nothing to dull his senses.

_Why didn’t she come? She’d have been perfect._

And he wouldn’t have felt the need to be here.

The reel turns into a slower tune. Some waltz, if he had to guess. _His body might’ve remembered had he been…_

He downs the rest of his wine.

Might as well get to what he was here for.

As he focuses on the room, threads begin to appear. Branches, more like, in appearance but still so paper thin that his was the only species-

His nostrils flare before he lets out a terse breath.

Every branch was a choice, a path. The way that the life could follow, brightest at where the person currently was in their life. The following branches could be vibrant- a life never threatened- or faded after a point with the possibility of not surviving- waiting for that crucial split-second choice preceding.

He'd wager his was just one big faded lump.

All sentient species carry it, like the human concept of an aura. He scoffs. Species barely able to sense things they can touch, let alone what they can’t see. It takes all of his considerable concentration to see it himself. 

A boy walks past on unsteady but quick legs, his mother following him. He’s barely along on his path, and it’s quite short- couldn’t even be a man when it stops. 

Mother’s almost to the end of hers. 

He glances at an older man who had been trying but failing to look longingly at a tintype all evening. Faded- meaning he’ll probably have a brief chance at a lifeboat.

A couple in their twenties twirl past. Both survive, and live to months within each other.

A thirtyish woman against the wall, nursing a glass. She has mere hours.

All around the room he looks, seeing some full of possibility, an endless weaving of choices not yet made. Others are blunt, almost to their abrupt end. 

What should have been a forest looked more like a haphazard logging, way too many shorter and duller than he could bear to look at any longer.

With a blink, it’s gone.

~oOo~

“Does this actually work?”

His lips pause at her collar bone, right above where her pulse thrums. He hums inquiringly, nipping at the skin. _Peppermint and lavender._ Those gray eyes had called to him from above her drink, the sadness so akin to his own drawing him in. He’d not planned on it coming to this, but-

A soft whimper escapes her, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. He is about to tug the last button on the fabric around her neck off, and-

“Will it help me forget?”

His forehead is against her shoulder, and his breath slows. Nails gently scratching behind his ear ground him, the moment _the forgetting_ well and truly lost.

A huff against her skin, and he finally meets her eyes. She searches his, finding the confirmation he can’t bring himself to put to words, and then nods. Her hand goes to the fabric hanging limply at her neck and, with a tug, it’s off. The gentle swell of her breasts is only teased at by her dress, but he swallows thickly at the desire to rest his head there and let her comfort him like a child. 

Not that he deserves such solace.

She drops the collar on her vanity and sits on the small chair, drawing the back of her hand along her forehead. She chuckles suddenly, wry, and he glances from his boots to her. “Look at the pair of us.” 

“Yeah.”

“What was her name?”

The mattress squeaks as he sits quicker than intended. 

“You had to have lost someone.” At his carefully smooth expression, she continues, “I’d even wager someones.” The silence returns until she blurts, “Dierk.” Her fingers smooth nonexistent wrinkles in her gown. “Mine, that is. His name was Dierk. My fiancé.” 

“Accident?”

“Consumption,” she whispers. She then clears her throat, straightening the hair his fingers had tugged from her chignon. “I know you’ve lost her- you couldn’t kiss me properly.”

Perhaps they were better matched than he thought. He shakes his head slowly before answering. “Not lost, just...she didn’t want to come with me.”

She nods hesitantly, head tilting slightly as she considers him. “But that isn’t all, is it?”

He stands. “I’d better go.”

“No, please!” She leaps up, grasping at his shirtsleeve. “We don’t have to-” She clears her throat delicately. “I won’t ask more. Could you please-” She closes her eyes tight, chin cast downward. “Please stay?”

He looks down to her fingers, considering a moment. After a beat, he wraps his hand around her hand, squeezing. “All right.”

She steps back quickly, seemingly realizing herself. She crosses her arms, grasping the opposite elbows, holding herself. Barely together. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging her towards the bed. At her widened eyes, he sighs. “Just let me hold you.”

Tears puddle in her eyes, and he pulls her down beside him.

As he spoons up behind her, he tries his best to hide his own shuddering breath against her hair.

~oOo~

He can't stay to watch them die.

_Weak._

He is at the TARDIS an hour before the iceberg would even be within eyeshot. 

As the Yale key turns in the lock, he hears a rustling behind him in the storage room.

Probably some doomed rats.

The door gives, and the Doctor has one foot on the grating when a voice calls out, “Running again, are we, Doctor?”

_What the-_

It's the formal robes he notices first. A hooded figure obscured by the dark in the storage room. Deep red with golden flourishes in a language he thought he'd never see on another living being again.

He slams the TARDIS door shut, the distrust swirling. Whoever she is, she is blocking him from identifying her telepathically.

She pulls the hood back, pushing her blonde hair back from her face, and steps into the light.

He can't help the gasp escaping his lips. “Romana?”


	6. rootless tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor is forced to remember.

_No, no, no, definitely_ not, _no, no- ahhh, yes!_

The Doctor slides on the purple tweed overcoat, twirling in a pirouette that lifts the ends more than it gives him a chance to admire himself in the mirror. 

_Purple is cool_.

Straightening his collar and bowtie, the Doctor pushes on both TARDIS doors ready to meet the Zafalonian sunshine. 

A clap of thunder sounds just as the TARDIS doors slam shut behind him. The only thing that he can make out in the nothingness is a tree in the distance, stripped completely of its branches and bark. The still grasses continue unhindered for miles in every direction with no light from moon or stars to break the gray surrounding him.

 _Not Zafalonia, then_. 

~oOo~

Almost an hour by Earth’s reckoning later, the Doctor found himself about halfway to the tree. After he’d wasted a good quarter of an hour trying to pry the TARDIS doors open. 

She’d not yet forgiven him for the finger-snapping business. 

As he plods along, he’s got naught but the sound of his own humming to keep him occupied. He’d already gone through the entirety of Arcade Fire’s song list. 

Perhaps some Nina Simone?

Anything but thinking.

Thinking leads to remembering.

Remembering leads to… 

He clears his throat.

_...them losing dice were tossed._

_My bridges were all crossed_

_Nowhere to goooooo-_

When he finally reaches the base of the tree, he can’t help but gape. The trunk has to be at least fifty metres wide. The few limbs that remain are a gnarled white, shocks breaking up the gray of the sky. 

He rounds the entire base, trying to find why the TARDIS would have brought him here in the first place. He knew that he’d been lax on making amends, but surely the old girl would eventually forgive him, especially after he’d finally cleared out the circular frame piping- 

“...twenty-three.”

The whisper has the Doctor whirling to see if there is someone behind him. Once he’s made sure, he knocks against the wood, wondering if there was a transmitter or sound system he’d missed.

“Seven thousand four hundred and twenty-three.”

The soft voice is much closer.

_And familiar._

The Doctor’s eyes slide shut as his jaw sets. He has to swallow back the bile rising. 

“Seven thousand four hundred and twenty-three.”

Closer.

“Seven thousand four hund-”

“ENOUGH!” 

There’s not even an echo of his shout. 

He turns slowly to see the person he knows _he fears_ is before him.

An impossibility again cruelly proving itself.

He looks much as he once did, that brown mop of hair, the light yellow clothing. That ridiculous blue star that meant the world to the boy still on his chest- not back in a room on the TARDIS.

“Adric?” the Doctor whispers, praying it’s another of his ghosts haunting him in this miserable place. 

The boy’s eyes settle on him, coolly, before he again recites, “Seven thousand-”

“Stop! What does that even mean?”

“Have you forgotten, Doctor?”

_No-_

The boy cocks his head before continuing, “Can such a number be forgotten?”

The Doctor’s fingers twitch. “Must have been. Quite a lot of numbers bumbling around in my head.”

“But the children.”

He can’t breathe.

“Well, they weren’t children for very long, were they?” His face remains inquisitive, a perversion of Adric’s natural curiosity. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“President Romanadvoratrelundar disappeared and something needed to be done.”

The Doctor’s hands clench into fists. “How could you possibly know that?”

Adric continues as if the Doctor hadn’t even spoken. “And the natural Gallifreyans were all but gone. New troops were needed.”

“Why are you-”

“If they hadn’t looked into the Vortex, they were forced to, and those still with the bodies of children were forced to regenerate into maturity, and then-”

“SHUT UP! I had nothing to do with that!” The Doctor whips out his sonic, which refuses to take a reading on Adric. “What the hell are you?”

“Mad, most of them.” The _thing_ keeps talking. “Not able to handle seeing all of time and space, let alone focus on anything in front of them. Distracted the Daleks for a bit though, didn’t they? Let a certain Time Lord go find his prize.”

“I-” The Doctor’s head keeps shaking back and forth as if his very body wants to keep denying it all. “I had no idea that they were doing that.”

“And then _it_ was released.”

The Doctor’s fists are both squeezing against the sides of his head, as if trying to hold it all in.

Or trying to keep the memories from flowing out.

“By _you_.”

When the Doctor opens his eyes that he didn’t even realize were clenched shut, he’s alone. 

It’s not until pain shoots within his throat that he notes that he hasn’t yet stopped screaming.

~oOo~

He couldn’t say how he got back to the TARDIS.

The doors are definitely open now.

Once at the console, he starts madly flipping switches, trying to follow whatever it was that had just visited him. 

It’s the slimmest of chances.

But he has to find where that thing came from.

And figure out _how it knows._

Suddenly a red dot appears on the monitor, pulsing faintly somewhere near the Betelgeuse quadrant. 

Haphazardly flipping switches, the Doctor grits his teeth as the TARDIS shakes, leaving the Vortex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from "Just in Time" by Nina Simone.
> 
> I must credit the "Time v. 3.0" by Teyke for some of my headcanons.


	7. 9 crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, we enter the War.

No time, there’s no bloody time. The Daleks had found a breach in Gallifrey’s defenses, and millions of Time Lords were dying and being reborn by the second. So many lives wasted- petals being pulled off by nasty children before the flowers were even allowed to bloom.

And he had to find a way to stop it. 

It was easy enough for him to get past the Palace of Ecstasy’s defense system. Hell, the Academy’s dormitories had more complicated mechanisations. 

What he hadn’t planned on was a guard blocking hall to the Vault.

A blaster is leveled right at his chest, ready to burst off thirteen rounds, if need be.

“Who are you?”

_There’s no time!_

“I’m on a mission from the Council.” He flicks open his satchel, pulling out a holograph disk with Rassilon’s -the bastard’s- seal. “I need to retrieve the Item.”

He hopes it’s enough, and he doesn’t have to erase the message from Susan.

Possibly the last.

The arm cocked with the blaster lowers, and the guard lifts their visor. Seems to be female, and young. 

She has to be relatively new, because she allows him passage without another word.

It is certainly indicative of the state of things.

~oOo~

“I’ll have to take you to the Vault. It’s difficult to find if you haven’t been here before.”

_All that time. Giant hats and robes more constricting than anything his bodies had ever shown a proclivity for- even now, the thought is weighted beyond measure-_

“I have. Many years ago.”

“Oh?”

Looking away, he clears his throat, continuing through the long arched entryway. He wonders, briefly, who this girl could be. Too eager for how long this damn war has continued. He senses that she couldn’t be more than- _no, that couldn’t possibly be right._

She’s thankfully oblivious to the turn of his thoughts. “I don’t get very much news up here. Where were you last?”

“The Caverns of Isolation.”

“But that’s near-” She shakes her head. “Wait...were you at the Shattered Valley?”

His eyes unfocus, beyond the girl standing in front of him.

She has absolutely no infinitesimal inkling of what is going on out there. 

No one talks about the deafening aspects of silence. When others talk of war, it’s an utter cacophony. 

But time sensitives are constantly moving within the spaces between, using banned technology to tug on the threads of Time itself- and there’s nothing. No way to hear the bodies hitting the ground, no blasts reverberating in your very bones, no lights searing through your corneas- 

No screams to be heard. 

He blinks.

“Yes, I was.”

She pauses, almost tripping. “But only one survived.”

“Indeed.” He picks up his speed, steps echoing in the dark, doorless hallway.

“And that would mean that you’re-”

He stops, not turning. “Yes.”

“It’s an honor, sir- we-” She hems as if she were an ardent admirer-and as if he were worthy of such adulation. “I can’t believe- the neophytes all hoped you would come back.”

He closes his eyes briefly, breath uneven, before facing the guard again.

“They wouldn’t let me stay away.” Her wide eyes dim the least bit.

 _Good._

He takes out a laser screwdriver, blasting a hole in the wall. A previously unseen door whooshes open, white lights nigh-blinding both of them. 

“Well, they got me.”

~oOo~

The air clears quickly, venting into the walls of the zero room. He steps down, tentatively, unsure of what he’s going to find. His eyes quickly scan the completely white room until he sees- in the corner, hunched over is what looks like a small girl with a yellow shift dress.

The Doctor slowly approaches her, kneeling a metre or so away. 

He’s heard stories, but-

Best be safe.

Before he has the chance to blink, the girl is in front of him. The time shifts, as if the seconds it would have taken her to get to him have been... _erased._ As if they had never existed. Future threads begin snapping in his head, quicker than even the most ambitious of time sensitives had achieved in aeons of existence.

Wiping the future away, as if it is but mere dust on a shelf.

The Doctor’s head cocks to the side as he studies the girl. His grandsires had told him legends of this...child, but she doesn’t seem to be more than five years old. Her eyes are yet closed, as if she is waiting for something- a sign. He scarce can breathe.

When he finally does, it’s as loud as a gasp in the otherwise silent room. The girl’s eyes open to show galaxies. Never since looking into the Vortex has he felt such a draw. A pull to see the creation of stars, supernovas ripping galaxies apart, worlds colliding. 

To willingly sublimate within a black hole. 

It’s only when her tiny hand brushes his cheek that the Doctor realizes that tears are streaming down his face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You _gorgeous_ thing.”

~oOo~

And it is the beginning.

Or the ending.

~oOo~

The ringing.

_Red grass, pulling up by the roots. Her tiny fingers almost popping his out of their sockets. Everything yawning, creaking, rising. Lifting him to his toes, as if he were just as inconsequential._

Ringing.

_Falling. A gold speck draws closer._

_Closer._

_It’s him._

_Ringing._

Growing ever louder until his eyes shoot open.

Dark.

Black.

 _Nothing_.

He can’t be dead.

Can he?

Reaching out from the foetal position he’s in, he hits...a smooth wall. Hands frantically pushing, he realizes he’s a spherical pod, of sorts. No buttons, no release. 

He closes his eyes, breathing in slowly. He must get back. If Rassilon is not stopped-

Just as he gets his heartsbeat to slow a fraction, there’s a hiss, and he tumbles to the ground. A pair of black, well-worn boots are scant centimeters from his nose.

He looks up to see a pair of icy blues that widen before quickly narrowing. A tick along the man’s jaw is the only reveal that he’s clenching his teeth.

There’s a gasp, and he notes that he’s surrounded by three men. 

One in purple tweed, fervently trying- and utterly failing- to not look at him. 

The other is clad in brown pinstripes with a camel coat to his ankles. His teeth are bared, air being dragged in hisses. 

_“You!”_

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own _Doctor Who_ or its brilliant characters. 
> 
> All chapter titles come from songs recorded by Damien Rice. (Yeah, I don't own them either!) The title of the fic itself comes from John Donne's gorgeous "Meditation XVII."


End file.
